


Sunrose Transplanted

by Laughing_Phoenix



Category: Tricksters - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Adjusting To A New Country, F/M, Kyprioth Likes His Little Gestures, Marriage, Prayer, Pregnancy, Sarai Makes A New Friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 16:15:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laughing_Phoenix/pseuds/Laughing_Phoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While power struggles consumed the Copper Isles - as a boy-king was murdered, rebellion swept the land, and a prophesied twice-royal Queen claimed the throne - a might-have-been ruler watched from across the sea.</p>
<p>Or.</p>
<p>Saraiyu Hetnim adjusts to a new country, a new life, and worries about those she left behind.  Written for the Yuletide 2013 challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunrose Transplanted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oxymora (oxymoron)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxymoron/gifts).



> I don't own the Tortall-verse. I did have the pleasure of meeting Tammy once, though.

Saraiyu Hetnim drew a deep breath as the palace doors approached. Although the palace was only twelve years old, and in some places still under construction, the façade of marble friezes and golden door and pillars was intimidating. Larger even than the squat Gray Palace and certainly more elegant, it presented unquestioned power and wealth. At her side, her husband Zaimid squeezed her hand in reassurance. Sarai smiled back, trying not to look as nervous as she felt.

They had been in Carthak three days, and married for two. The summons to the Imperial court had arrived that morning as they were having breakfast with Zaimid’s mother, Mira – the Emperor was eager to officially greet his loyal subject after his return, and confer upon him the title of Imperial Healer.

Zaimid had smiled wryly at Sarai across the table, note in hand. “It will be a very long day, I am afraid, but there’s nothing for it.”

“You’ll want the amber and black,” Mira said, eyeing Sarai’s hair critically. “It’s the most suitable of the things you have with you, though it is a pity we haven’t had more time to get you something more appropriate.” Nodding decisively, she rose. “Come, daughter, we have no time to waste.”

Sarai had sighed, whispering “save me!” to Zaimid, but followed her mother-in-law. Mira had swept into the chambers she shared with Zaimid with all the confidence of a general, issuing orders to her maid, Noor, and Zaimid’s valet. There had been a disagreement about the appropriate jewelry and hairpins, the styles favored by the Carthaki being somewhat more restrained than those of the Copper Isles, but in the end Sarai had bowed to Mira’s experience. Even if _she_ felt shabbily dressed, it wouldn’t do to make a bad impression.

Sarai banished the events of the morning from her mind, willing herself to concentrate and not gawp like a bumpkin. It wasn’t exactly easy - the inside of the palace was just as impressive as the outside. Frescoes and mosaics covered the walls, and frequent niches along them held small statuettes and urns of gold, silver, alabaster, and other precious materials. She clutched at Zaimid’s hand as they reached an intricately carved set of wooden doors, depicting small groups of people at work in the many and varied lands of the Empire.

A herald announced them as they entered the throne room, approaching the dais. “Lord Zaimid Hetnim, and his wife the Lady Saraiyu.” Zaimid bowed, Sarai dropping into her best curtsey at his side. As Sarai rose from her curtsey, she looked up at the dais from under her eyelashes.

The Imperial couple made a striking pair. Emperor Kaddar’s skin was darker than Sarai’s own, and his clothes – a gold brocade robe, short-sleeved and knee-length with a crimson sash – and heavy gold and ruby jewelry made him shine like the sun. By contrast the Empress Kalasin’s pale skin glowed, moon-like, her deep blue dress and silvery overrobe setting off her deep blue eyes and black hair, covered, in accordance with Carthaki custom, with a sheer silver veil.

“Cousin,” Emperor Kaddar said, “it gives me great pleasure to see you returned.” His mellow voice projected through the room, making it as easy for Sarai to hear him as if she’d been at his shoulder. “Your trip was a fruitful one?”

“I learned much, your Majesty,” Zaimid replied, “but the greatest treasure I found in the Copper Isles stands beside me.”

“So I see. Welcome, Lady Saraiyu, to Carthak.” The Emperor smiled, and Sarai found herself smiling back.

“Thank you, your Majesty.” She bowed her head.

“Zaimid,” the Emperor turned back to her husband, “the post of Imperial Healer has been sadly vacant since Lord Dejen retired some six months ago. It would give us great pleasure were you to accept the position and the responsibilities that attend on it.” For a moment Sarai thought he was using the royal plural, but then she caught sight of the Empress’ hand, resting on his own. Evidently they had discussed this and come to a decision together.

Zaimid bowed again. “When your Majesty honors me with such a request, how can I not accept?”

“Good,” the Empress said, smiling. “Rise, my Lord Zaimid, Imperial Healer. Lady Saraiyu, you are most welcome.”

Sarai bobbed another curtsey, and mindful of the etiquette lessons Mira had drilled into her that morning, backed away from the dais towards the wall, letting Zaimid’s hand on her elbow guide her. They watched as a half-dozen more individuals were presented to the Imperial couple, Zaimid alternating between murmuring what he knew of each in Sarai’s ear and pointing out other men and women of note when the ritual exchanges of greetings became too repetitive.

Perhaps a half-hour later, the formal audience was done, and at the orders of the Emperor the courtiers turned amongst each other to mingle and talk. Two of the walls gently sunk into the floor with a grinding sound and standing screens were pushed aside, revealing more rooms of courtiers, all of whom bowed or curtsied to the Imperial couple, then returned to their conversations.

Sarai and Zaimid circulated for a little while, Zaimid introducing Sarai to old friends and Sarai doing her best to memorize as many names and faces as she could. Eventually a servant appeared at Zaimid’s elbow and murmured something Sarai didn’t quite catch. “Their Majesties would like to see us,” Zaimid murmured in her ear, and they extricated themselves from the group as politely as they could.

Circling around the room, they made their way past the dais with its two low-backed thrones to the benches the Imperial couple had claimed. The Empress smiled at them as they paid their respects, waving them onto the bench beside hers. “I’ve been eager to see you, cousin,” she told Zaimid. “We must find the time to discuss what you learned while in the Copper Isles.”

“It would be an honor, your Majesty,” Zaimid said. “The finer subtleties of _raka_ magic are unlike anything I had ever seen – there was one where –”

The next thing Sarai knew, Zaimid and Empress Kalasin were deep in discussion of various healing magics. She tried to follow the conversation, but she was hopelessly lost within minutes.

Emperor Kaddar smiled at her. “My lady wife is a healer in her own right,” he said conversationally. “She does not often get the opportunity to discuss her passion with anyone as interested as herself, so you will have to forgive her for monopolizing your husband.”

“Not at all, your Majesty,” Sarai smiled. “I love my husband dearly, but I must admit that much of what he does is beyond my understanding. I admire his dedication to his work too much to envy him the chance to discuss it with someone who shares his interest.”

“Wise and beautiful,” the Emperor said, “my cousin chose well.” He selected a grape from the bowl of fruits set on a low table beside his bench. “Tell me, my lady, how do you find Carthak?”

“It is very different from the Copper Isles,” Sarai said, considering her answer. “Much of the Isles is jungle, and the birds sound different.”

“I’ve never had the opportunity to visit the Isles, though I have seen some of the animals that come from them.” The Emperor rolled another grape in his hand. “There was a pygmy marmoset I met once by the name of Zek, quite the clever little fellow.”

Sarai laughed, despite herself. “The royal palace in Rajmuat has marmosets living in the grounds,” she said. “We’d feed them on occasion, though we were never allowed to have one of our own.”

Before long, Sarai and the Emperor were engaged in a discussion of the differences between Carthak and the Copper Isles. As they talked, Sarai relaxed. All her life Carthak had been their larger, more powerful neighbor to the East, and the madness of Emperor Ozorne was still notorious. In Sarai’s experience, rulers were to be feared. They didn’t tell stories of the mishaps they’d gotten into as children.

“Lady Saraiyu,” the Empress said during a lull in the conversation, her own discussion with Zaimid having wound down a little. “Your husband tells me that you have studied the sword.”

“A little, your Majesty,” Sarai admitted. “My father believed that a woman should know how to defend herself if necessary.”

“A wise man,” Empress Kalasin favored Sarai with a long look. “You shall have to join me some morning – I miss having another woman to practice the blade with.”

Sarai’s jaw nearly dropped, and she boggled as she accepted the invitation. She and Zaimid were dismissed shortly thereafter, and the subject was dropped until the evening, once they’d returned to their own home.

“I thought that Carthaki women didn’t learn the sword?” she asked, brushing out her hair.

“Most do not,” Zaimid shrugged. “If a Carthaki noblewoman learns a weapon, it’s the bow or the short spear, so that she may go hunting. You forget, my love, that Empress Kalasin is not Carthaki.”

“She’s Tortallan, isn’t she?” Sarai considered that for a moment. “I suppose it makes sense. Queen Thayet rides into battle at the head of the Queen’s Riders on occasion and keeps a bow in her chambers; she must have elected to train her daughter as well.”

“Where did you hear that?” Zaimid asked. “That Queen Thayet keeps a bow in her chambers?”

“Dove’s maid, Aly, is Tortallan.” Sarai put down her brush and turned to join her husband in their bed. “She would tell us stories when we sailed from Rajmuat to Lombyn and were tired of being cooped up in the ship’s cabin.”

“I hope you don’t plan to keep a bow in our room, love,” Zaimid murmured. “I don’t think we have the space to properly use it.”

“Dove is the archer,” Sarai told her husband, giving him a wicked smile. “I prefer the sword.”

Two days later, Zaimid was summoned to court. Sarai was not, and Mira took the chance to pounce, declaring that they would take the time to get to know each other better, woman to woman. The morning was spent sorting through the jewelry both owned, Mira passing down necklaces and rings she’d worn as a bride, telling the stories that went with some of them. That afternoon, it was embroidery and what Mira termed ‘necessary news’ and Sarai was tempted to call ‘gossip’ about family friends and neighbors.

When Zaimid returned from the Emperor’s court, it was in a solemn mood. Sarai glanced up from her embroidery as he entered the sitting room she occupied with his mother, and the smile on her face fell away. Her husband looked pale and drawn.

“Zaimid?” Mira rose, disturbed at her son’s appearance.

“Mother, might I speak with Saraiyu alone?” He pressed her hand gently. “It’s important.”

“Of course,” she withdrew quietly, casting a single worried glance at the couple before closing the door behind her.

Zaimid sighed, taking a seat at Sarai’s feet. Pulling her embroidery from her unresisting hands, he set it aside, then took her hands in his. “Sarai, my love, there is news from the Copper Isles.”

Sarai’s gut clenched. The words were innocuous enough, but the look on Zaimid’s face…

“For his birthday, King Dunevon and assorted members of his court were to take a pleasure cruise throughout Rajmuat harbor. A sudden storm blew in and destroyed the boat.” Zaimid hesitated, as if choosing his words. “My love…King Dunevon is dead, as are three of the boys who went with them.”

“My brother is dead.” Ice-cold certainty wrapped around her heart, and for a moment Sarai couldn’t breathe. Was it not enough for her father to have been murdered less than a year before?

“His body was lost beneath the sea. I’m so sorry.” 

Everything went hazy for a moment, and when Sarai came back to herself it was slumped forward, Zaimid’s arms around her. He spoke, and she blinked at him, uncomprehending. His voice sounded strange, like it was coming through water. A moment, and she was being helped to her feet and led from the room, down the hall to their chambers. She followed, docile, as she was delivered into Noor’s care, who undressed her and helped her slide into bed in her chemise.

Later that night the haze broke, and Sarai raged and wept, cursing the fates that preyed on her family and hating a world that could steal so sweet and innocent a boy from his mother and sisters.

When Sarai rose the next morning, it was in a calmer frame of mind, if not a happier one. “Is there a special protocol for the temples in Carthak?” she asked Noor as the older woman did her hair. Sarai’s eyes were red-rimmed as they stared back at her from the mirror. “I know that some orders prefer not to allow women into the sanctuaries.”

“The temples of the Black God and the Wave-walker are open to all, as is that of the Graveyard Hag,” Noor said, pinning a veil over the heavy coil of Sarai’s hair. “If milady wishes, I can have the cook make up a basket of offerings.”

“Please,” Sarai reached for some of the jeweled pins she’d brought from the Isles, and rolled them in her fingers, considering. “Is there a temple or shrine to the Trickster?”

“There is,” Noor’s hand paused above Sarai’s shoulder, nearly touching, and Sarai wished for Aly or Boulaj with such desperation that it hurt. Neither would hesitate to offer comfort. “I’ll speak to Rosham about the basket, milady.”

“Thank you Noor, but that won’t be necessary,” the women turned to find Zaimid in the door, a basket in hand.

“Zaimid,” Sarai breathed, rushing to him and glancing in the basket. Flowers, incense, spices, all tucked away neatly. “I love you,” she told her husband. Pulling on the heavy, concealing robe and veils Carthaki women wore in public and taking the offered arm, she followed him into the city. Zaimid did not press her for conversation; instead he respected her grief and supported her as best he could, with a solid arm and quiet presence. Sarai offered him a tearful smile, and her husband, her open-hearted love, held her close for a moment before they continued.

The family house was tucked among other properties belonging to the noble and wealthy, not far from the main temple district. Unlike the visit to the palace, Zaimid and Sarai went on foot, a pair of servants trailing behind them. They made their offerings at the temples of the Black God and the Wave-Walker, praying for Elsren. Sarai offered up prayers for Dunevon as well, hoping that the little boy had a kinder future in the hands of the Black God than he’d experienced in his short life.

Outside the temple of the Graveyard Hag, the most elaborate she’d seen, Zaimid hesitated. “I heard you speaking to Noor about the Trickster,” he began. “There is a shrine dedicated to Kyprioth two streets over, if you wish to stop there.”

“I do.” Sarai disentangled her arm from Zaimid’s, slipping a hand into her sleeve to check that the little packet she’d brought was still there. “Kyprioth is the patron god of my mother’s people, and the seas around the Isles are His domain.” She smiled tremulously. “Make your devotions to your patron, Zaimid, and I will see if the Trickster will hear my prayers.”

Zaimid hesitated, then nodded, waving the servants accompanying them forward. Sarai recognized one of them as Harun, who accompanied Mira on her excursions to visit her friends or the market, but the other’s name escaped her. “I will meet you there when you are finished,” Zaimid told her, then ducked away, entering the Hag’s temple.

Harun gestured down the street. “If you will, milady?” Sarai nodded, straightening her spine, and the short walk was conducted in silence. The men obligingly paused at the shrine’s portico, allowing Sarai to enter alone.

The small space was comparatively bare, with the exception of twin mosaics on either side of the altar depicting crows. Sarai genuflected, then stepped up to the altar, unfolding the fine linen handkerchief and pulling out a small cone of incense and a half-dozen of her jeweled hairpins. Lighting the incense from the small brazier burning in the corner and spreading the pins across the stone so as to best catch the light, she prayed.

It was not an elegant prayer, or even an organized one, like the prayers to Mithros or the Goddess she’d learned by rote as a child. Instead, Sarai begged, whispering into the quiet. Her hope that Elsren had not suffered, that he would be at peace, spilled into the air, followed shortly by her fears for Dove’s safety, and Winna’s and Petranne’s. Sarai pleaded with Kyprioth, legendarily fickle, that he might in some way protect them from Imajane and Rubinyan, from anyone else who might see a grieving widow and her two daughters as easy pickings. Desperation flavored her prayer, and Sarai only hoped that, as she could not be there to defend her family herself, with the sword if necessary, Kyprioth might aid them in her stead.

Eventually her words ran dry. Sarai stood a moment in silence, then breathed out a shuddering sigh and genuflected once more. She’d made her case as best she could. As she walked from the shrine and into the street, she resolved to return as frequently as possible.

Her plan to return to Kyprioth’s shrine the following day was disrupted by an early-morning summons from the Empress. Included was an instruction to bring clothes appropriate for weapons practice.

“You do not need to go,” Zaimid murmured. “I can make your excuses to Her Majesty, given the circumstances.”

Sarai considered that a moment, then shook her head. “I think the chance to wear myself out would do me some good.”

When they arrived at the palace, Sarai in the plainest, easiest-to-move-in dress she had, they were directed to a small courtyard with archery targets lined up along a wall. Empress Kalasin was waiting for them, in Tortallan-style tunic and trousers, the scarf wrapped around her head the only concession to Carthaki custom.

“I am glad to see you,” she told Sarai. “Do you have a practice blade, or shall we find you one?”

“I brought one,” Sarai said, holding it out for inspection.

The Empress gave it a careful once-over, and pronounced it “quite nice.” She then raised an eyebrow at Zaimid. “Will you be joining us?”

Zaimid shook his head. “With your Majesty’s permission, I think I’ll withdraw to the library.”

She laughed. “To the books with you, then. I promise to return your wife before noon.”

By the time noon rolled around, Sarai was exhausted. Empress Kalasin was a practiced swordswoman, quick and agile, and though she’d begun and ended the session by leading Sarai through stretches the younger woman was sorer than she’d been in a long while.

“Do all women from Tortall learn a weapon?” Sarai asked, panting a little as they finished their stretches.

Kalasin shook her head. “No, sadly. A lot of rural women can use a sling or a bow, but few noblemen feel the need to have their daughters study anything so ‘unladylike’. That may change,” she added, almost as an afterthought. “Lady Knight Keladry is an excellent example, and Princess Shinkokami is quite talented with her weapons of choice.” Sarai was tempted to ask, but refrained. Kalasin was eyeing her intensely. “What are your plans for life here in Carthak, Lady Saraiyu?”

Sarai blinked, scrambling to recover her equilibrium. The last person to speak as bluntly to her had been Aunt Nuritin. “It’s difficult to say, your Majesty. Zaimid and I are only just wed, and I am still settling in to my new country.”

“All understandable, of course,” Kalasin said, “but surely you have thought about it.”

“I-I, we, we’ve discussed children,” Sarai admitted. “In a little while. And horses. We thought that we might raise children and train our horses and be happy.” She shrugged, thoroughly out of her depth and hoping she hadn’t said something stupid. Still, it was the truth, and if the Empress judged her for it Sarai didn’t care.

“That sounds lovely,” Kalasin softened, voice gentle. “I had hoped to offer you a place among my ladies, but if you would prefer a private life, I will not press the issue.” Sarai stared, wide-eyed, and Kalasin smiled. “Think on it, you have all the time you need to decide. In the interim,” Kalasin said, becoming businesslike once more, “I move that we adjourn to the baths and fresh clothes. Even now, I’m still not used to this heat.” She waved a hand in front of her face, trying to cool herself a little.

Sarai trailed along behind the older woman, still a little confused, a feeling that had not abated some hours later, when she and Zaimid left the palace. She repeated the conversation to her husband, who looked thoughtful.

“It would be an opportunity for you to have a life in court,” he pointed out. “His Majesty has mentioned that it would perhaps be wise for us to seek a home closer to the palace, in the event of a medical emergency. Dejen had quarters within the palace itself, but they went to someone else on his retirement.”

Sarai chewed her lip, then realized she was falling into bad habits and stopped herself. “The Empress said I had time to decide, and I will, but perhaps not yet?”

Zaimid nodded, and kissed her temple. “Not yet. We don’t need to decide this instant.”

When Zaimid was summoned away to the University the following day, Sarai put together a small packet of offerings, had Noor beg some incense from Rosham, and set out for the temple district in her heavy veils, trailed by Noor and Harun. Her first destination was the Black God’s temple, where she prayed again for Elsren and Dunevon, and the two other boys whose names she still did not know. Upset with herself for the oversight, Sarai made a mental note to ask Zaimid if he knew who they’d been.

Her next destination was Kyprioth’s shrine. It was just as empty as it had been the last time she’d come. Sarai frowned at the sight of her hairpins where she’d left them – surely someone would have cleared them away by now, a caretaker or acolyte? Setting alight the incense she’d brought to burn, she went to shift them sideways so that she’d have more room to lay out her offering.

The pins wouldn’t move. Sarai ran her fingers along the sides, then bent down to take a closer look. The metal of the pins had sunk into the stone, leaving them as firmly attached as the great metal bolts sunk into the gates at the end of Rittevon’s Lance.

She yanked her hands back as if burned, and tried very hard not to panic.

Working swiftly, Sarai pulled her new offering – a pair of rings meant for a man she’d taken from her dowry – and set them on the altar. As they had two days previously, prayers for her family’s safety spilled from her lips in a flood, tinged with a cautious hope that they might be answered, given the state of the hairpins. When she left, it was feeling, if not necessarily reassured, at least calmer.

When Zaimid came home that evening, filled with uneasy news, she started to wonder if Kyprioth had been listening. The more he told her, the more she wondered if Kyprioth’s attention was a good or bad thing.

“Some of the mages at the University became suspicious of the storm that…that hit Rajmuat last week,” Zaimid told her. “They investigated – it was a mage’s work,” he hesitated. “There were many theories being thrown around, but they’ve narrowed down the location of the mage or mages who caused it to the Grey Palace.”

Sarai exploded from her chair, pacing back and forth. “It was the regents, wasn’t it. _Wasn’t it?_ ”

“Imajane and Rubinyan have declared themselves King and Queen of the Copper Isles,” Zaimid said, watching her from his chair.

“That’s a yes. They murdered that little boy, and they murdered Elsren because he was next in line, and now they plan to seize power.” Sarai wanted to break something. Children had been murdered, _her brother_ had been murdered, along with the Copper Isles’ boy-king. The Rittevon family was poison, killing itself from the inside and when that poison burst free it killed everything it touched.

“More than a handful of people have made the same assessment. Their Majesties will know by morning, if they don’t already. There’s more. Many of the Isles are in open rebellion, and discontent has sparked at least one riot in Rajmuat already. Sarai,” Zaimid leaned forward and caught her hand as she paced, tugging her to face him. “I would never ask that you sequester yourself in the women’s quarters, but for my own peace of mind would you let me know where you plan to be when you leave the house? If I’m not available, take Harun with you. He has some experience as a bodyguard.”

“Bodyguard?” Sarai sank back into a chair, hand still in Zaimid’s. “Do you think I need one? Why?”

“You probably don’t,” he offered her a pained smile. “You’re smart and can defend yourself if it comes down to it, but I’d feel better.”

“Alright,” Sarai said. “Just… I need you to tell me what you hear about the Isles. It may not be my home anymore, but my sisters and Winna are still there. You must promise me, Zaimid. I won’t be kept in the dark.”

“You’ll know everything I do,” Zaimid promised. “Sarai, my love, I would never keep anything from you. I only wish for you to be happy.” He kissed her hand, and Sarai pulled him to her by the collar of his shirt, stealing a kiss of her own and losing herself in his arms for a little while.

The weeks that followed were an emotional whirlwind to Sarai. Perhaps twice a week she was summoned to the palace to practice the sword with the Empress. Kalasin kept the conversation to the sword and useful stretches to keep the body from cramping, never once touching on either the situation in the Copper Isles or the offer she’d made Sarai, but she frequently looked at the younger woman as though she could see into her mind and Sarai found it unnerving.

On the days she wasn’t summoned to the palace, Sarai frequently made a trip to Kyprioth’s shrine to burn more incense for her sister. Unlike the pins, the remains of the rest of her offerings were cleared away by the shrine’s caretaker each night. Sarai often found herself touching the pins, a gesture as instinctive as it was hopeful. 

Almost daily, Zaimid came home with news on the situation in the Copper Isles, and Sarai did her best to stay calm as he told her how Carthak and Tortall had recalled their ambassadors, how the violence got worse, how the gods were visibly warring in the skies, Kyprioth against Mithros and the Goddess. It was nearly intolerable – she hated the feeling of helplessness that came from knowing there was nothing she could do. She walked the house, trying to outpace her own anger and fear, and when forced to more ladylike pursuits, stabbed her needle through the cloth. As she worked she imagined the faces of the new King and Queen of the Copper Isles – may their reign be short and end with retribution.

The day Sarai learned that Ulasim was commanding the rebel armies and that Dove had been seen riding a kudarung, she went straight to Kyprioth’s shrine and spent over an hour in prayer, burning incense and leaving a jeweled chain on the altar. When she returned the following day, the chain had been snapped in two and somehow affixed above the mosaics.

Sarai smiled.

Three days after she’d made the offering of the chain, Zaimid and Sarai were summoned to a private audience with the Imperial couple. It didn’t take them long to get to the point of the summons. “News from the Copper Isles, Lady Saraiyu,” Emperor Kaddar told her. “Your sister Dovasary is Queen.”

Sarai had expected this news, but hearing it was far different. Dove, clever and gentle, quick and demanding and so very young, would rule well, far better than Sarai ever could. “Your Majesty?”

“The rebellion seized the palace yesterday. Imajane and Rubinyan are dead, and Queen Dovasary has been proclaimed ruler of the Isles. The Trickster holds the field.” Both Emperor and Empress had their eyes on her, and Sarai chose her words very carefully.

“I cannot properly express how happy I am that Dove is well. Have you any news of the Dowager Duchess Winnamine Balitang? Or Petranne Balitang?”

“All well,” Kalasin said soothingly, and Sarai breathed a sigh of relief, sending a silent prayer of thanks to Kyprioth.

“Thank you, your Majesty,” she said.

“I’m sure the uncertainty has been difficult,” Emperor Kaddar told her.

“It has,” Sarai admitted, “but my family is safe, and that’s what matters. I can’t and won’t pretend otherwise. Your Majesties, I married Zaimid because I love him, but I left the Copper Isles because I didn’t want a throne.” She hesitated, then went on. “I won’t lie – Dove will make a better queen than the liars, thieves, and murderers of the Rittevon line ever were.”

Their Imperial Majesties shared a long glance, then turned back to Sarai and Zaimid. “That’s good to hear,” Kaddar said. “Now, Zaimid, a number of scholars from the University have proposed changes to the current cistern systems, claiming that as they currently are there is a chance that a disease might spread through the city if one is contaminated. Your thoughts?”

Life fell into a routine for Sarai. Although she had elected not to join Empress Kalasin’s ladies-in-waiting, she remained a frequent visitor to the palace, joining her Majesty three times a week for practice in the morning, a visit that often stretched into the afternoon. The rest of the time was spent with Mira, running the household, or Zaimid, who was introducing her to his stable of horses, including his uncle’s handsome stallion, who had fathered half of the colts Sarai would now help to train.

Sarai also made it a point to make bi-weekly visits to Kyprioth’s shrine, burning incense each time. Although less panicked than her earlier visits, she still prayed for Dove’s safety – if she’d learned nothing else from her time in the Rittevon court, it was that ruling was dangerous, and as intelligent and clever as Dove was, she was still Sarai’s little sister and Sarai would never stop worrying about her.

As summer turned into fall, Sarai’s days began to be punctuated with bouts of nausea. Most of the time it was minor, perhaps a simple intestinal disagreement with cuisine she was still adjusting to, but after the third time she bolted for the privy in a week, Zaimid insisted on examining her. His findings disproved Sarai’s theory of indigestion, and when Sarai was next summoned to swordplay with the Empress, he accompanied her.

“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing to Kalasin, “if I may, I must request that you excuse Sarai from practice for a little while.”

“Oh? The stomach troubles aren’t serious, are they?”

“No, your Majesty, but I believe that I will need at least nine months before I can keep up with our usual routine,” Sarai said.

“Perhaps a year,” Zaimid said.

Kalasin was smiling. “Are congratulations in order, my lord and lady?”

“They are, your Majesty,” Zaimid said happily. “We expect the child to be born in spring.”

“You are indeed to be congratulated,” Kalasin told them. “Lady Saraiyu, you must of course take the time you need, although I do hope you’ll return to practice when you can. Have you told the Emperor yet?”

When Zaimid admitted that they had not, Kalasin grinned and dismissed them with orders to “share the good news”.

That afternoon, as they sat together after lunch, Zaimid turned to Sarai. “I have been thinking of names for the little one.”

“It’s early yet,” Sarai teased, “you’re planning quite far in advance.”

Zaimid nodded, acknowledging the point. “If it is a boy,” he said, “we will of course name him Mequen. For a girl, I rather like Nasrin, or perhaps Sahar. What do you think?”

Sarai blinked for a moment at the casual tone, then gave a watery laugh and kissed him. “That sounds lovely,” she agreed. A very pleasant hour was spent discussing names, and when Zaimid left to meet with the groom and to discuss one of the mares, who had thrown a shoe, Sarai felt light enough to walk on clouds.

Flushed with happiness, Sarai sat down at her writing desk and pulled a sheet of paper towards her.

_Dear Winna and Dove,_ she wrote, _I have so much to tell you._


End file.
